


The 7th of July

by adamprrishcycle



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Emotional Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, References to Drugs, Suicide Attempt, the dream pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7303036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamprrishcycle/pseuds/adamprrishcycle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fourth of July party, Kavinsky crashed as though he’d been on a high his entire life and now his body had finally had enough. His brain was tired and overworked, his blood ran thick and sluggish in his veins.</p>
<p>One day he had been talking about fire and dream-things and fireworks, the next he was a ghost.</p>
<p><em>No, not a ghost,</em> Prokopenko thought, <em>a zombie.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The 7th of July

**Author's Note:**

> So in an alternate universe, Kavinsky survives the Fourth of July. There’s enough prokopinsky angst in this fic to light a city. You’ve been warned.

After the Fourth of July party, Kavinsky crashed as though he’d been on a high his entire life and now his body had finally had enough. His brain was tired and overworked, his blood ran thick and sluggish in his veins.

One day he had been talking about fire and dream-things and fireworks, the next he was a ghost.

_No, not a ghost,_ Prokopenko thought, _a zombie._

It was July 7th and everyone thought Kavinsky was dead, all except those who had stayed long enough to watch him wake, slide off the back of the Mitsubishi and dust ash from his clothes.

Lynch had already left with his brother and his friends. Prokopenko was glad.

There had been an agonizing 20 minutes where he had thought Kavinsky was dead. People had scattered, there were sirens in the distance, though no ambulance or police car was coming to this dead man’s party.

Then Kavinsky had woken up like he was Christ himself and Prokopenko had been the first to approach him.

“What the hell, man?” He’d said, voice shaking, hands trembling.

Kavinsky had looked around to find staring faces and a hundred white Mitsubishi’s on fire. He didn’t smile.

He turned back to Prokopenko. “Get me out of here,” he said.

Prokopenko wanted him to sleep it off. He couldn’t stand the hollow look in his eyes which could only get worse as the alcohol, the drugs and whatever else poison pumped through his bloodstream slowly seeped out of him. He had taken to sitting with him, watching him drift in and out of a sleep that had him suddenly twitching awake, kicking his legs out and rolling his eyes back in his head. Prokopenko had gone to touch him once and he’d lashed out, hitting him hard enough to leave a large bruise.

He opened the door to Kavinsky’s bedroom and there he was, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes had been closed but he opened them when Prokopenko entered. The curtains were drawn and the room was too hot.

“You need some fresh air in here,” Prokopenko said, striding over to the window.

“No,” Kavinsky said. His voice was weak, but there was something cold and chilling about it that had Prokopenko listening.

“Fine,” he said and he crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s the plan?”

K always had a plan.

“I’m supposed to be dead,” He replied, still watching the ceiling like he might miss something if he looked away.

Something in Prokopenko’s stomach seemed to reject itself and he felt sick.

“No, you’re not,” he said firmly. He clenched his fists, he wasn’t going to let them shake this time.

“Do you think I planned it to go down like this? To survive that thing- that fire dragon I took from Lynch’s dream?”

Prokopenko almost flinched at his name. “I don’t think you could have known what was gonna happen.”

“No, I knew. That was the end. There wasn’t supposed to be anything past that moment and I- God, I need a cigarette.” He pulled his hands over his face. “Don’t let me- Fuck, Proko, just take it all away. You know where I stash it all. Burn it.”

He was talking about the cocaine and the dream drugs, the cigarettes and the spirits.

“What about-” Prokopenko started, thinking greedily of the money it would be wasting. The old Kavinsky would have thought the same thing after all.

“Burn it,” Kavinsky snapped, cutting him off.

“Okay, I will,” he said and he sat down at the end of the bed. Kavinsky looked over at him suspiciously. He longed for his mouth to turn up in that infuriating smirk, but his eyes looked dead. He wanted to touch him, put his hand on his arm reassuringly or hold his hand, but he didn’t dare.

“Do they know?” Kavinsky asked. _They._ Prokopenko wasn’t entirely sure who he meant.

He avoided the question. “Do you want anyone to know?”

Kavinsky shook his head but Prokopenko knew him well enough to know it meant, _I don’t care._

Joseph Kavinsky didn’t care. That was the bottom line here surely. Kavinsky didn’t care about his life, Kavinsky didn’t care about the impact his attempted suicide would have on everyone who had witnessed it, Kavinsky didn’t care about his friends and Kavinsky sure as shit didn’t care about Prokopenko.

“Why are you trying to get sober now?” Proko asked.

The normal Kavinsky - if being high and off your face everyday could be considered normal - would have made a joke. He would have defended himself with a crude remark or an insult. But he didn’t.

“I already told you,” he said. Deadpan. Expressionless. “I’m supposed to be dead.”

Prokopenko had the urge to get a drink. He had the urge to get K a drink too. Get some alcohol pumping through his system, bring him back to life, get him off this suicidal bullshit.

“I read about it,” Kavinsky added and Prokopenko stared at him, waiting for some further explanation. “My body is so used to being jacked up on all the shit we do, it won’t be able to cope. It isn’t coping. This is my mausoleum, man.”

Prokopenko clenched his jaw. “You think you’re some kind of god, don’t you?” Although it was something he’d thought many a time, he knew it was irrational now. Kavinsky’s mental health wasn’t about him playing god at this particular moment. But Proko was angry.

Kavinsky raised an eyebrow, either unsure what to make of Prokopenko’s anger, or because he couldn’t bring himself to care. Prokopenko guessed it was the latter.

He continued when Kavinsky didn’t comment. “You think you can just off yourself like turning off a fucking light switch. Maybe it’s like that for you, but it’s not for me. I watched you die already. I felt exactly how it would feel and it was really fucking shitty.”

“So I should stay for you?” It was an accusation.

“No.” _Yes._ “You should stay for yourself.” _Please stay with me._

K looked up at the ceiling again and Prokopenko noticed the stutter in his chest. Was the withdrawal somehow affecting his breathing?

“What about Lynch?” Kavinsky asked suddenly, opening his eyes.

It always came back to Ronan Lynch somehow.

“What about him?”

“Does he know?”

“No, he thinks you’re dead,” Prokopenko said bluntly. Emotion passed over Kavinsky’s face for the first time; anger or pain or something else, and it should have been a good thing. But it wasn’t because it was for him.

Prokopenko had tried to like Ronan Lynch. He knew that Kavinsky was trying to bring him into their circle and in his attempts to impress K, he had tried to be civil with him. But Proko hated him. He was arrogant and sly. He was a cold-hearted bastard who messed with Kavinsky’s head. It had been scary to watch someone playing with Kavinsky like that. Kavinsky was usually the one who manipulated people, not the other way around. Lynch was unnerving. Lynch held people by puppet strings and acted as though he didn’t realize until he tugged.

“You should let him know that I’m not,” Kavinsky said and Prokopenko almost told him to fuck off. 

“He wasn’t your friend, he’s nobodies friend. Fucking snake bastard,” he said instead.

Kavinsky narrowed his eyes. “Tell him.”

***

Monmouth Manufacturing was even more shitty up close than it had looked from the road. Everything looked overgrown and crumbling and Prokopenko wondered why someone like Dick Gansey would live in a place like this. It was an eyesore. Proko hated it.

He leant against his Golf and waited for Lynch to come out. He’d got his number off Kavinsky’s phone and he’d text him to let him know he was outside. His infamous black BMW was parked outside and there was a light on in one of the long windows on the first floor so Prokopenko waited. 

He hated Kavinsky for making him do this, though there was some satisfaction when Lynch finally appeared and he looked like someone had punched him in both eyes. He was obviously sleep deprived and his skin looked sallow and unhealthy. 

“Make it quick,” he said as he came to a stop in front of him. It occured to Prokopenko that they were standing in entirely different worlds. In Proko’s world, Kavinsky was alive. In Lynch’s world, Kavinsky was dead.

“How are you doing?” Prokopenko couldn’t help but probe into this strange parallel universe. 

“I’m fine,” Lynch said flatly, his face furious.

“That’s great,” Prokopenko said sarcastically, then added casually, “well I came to tell you that K’s alive.”

Lynch’s face dropped, then he turned and walked away.

“I’m not lying,” Prokopenko called after him. “It didn’t kill him. He woke up.”

Lynch stopped abruptly and turned, striding back over to Prokopenko.

“You know, I don’t give a fuck if he’s alive or not. He’s dead to me either way,” he spat. “Did he send you?”

Prokopenko nodded once. That’s all he was willing to offer.

“Well run back to him like the little bitch you are and tell him that he’s fucking dead to me.”

Prokopenko had seen him and Kavinsky fight enough times to know he wouldn’t stand a chance against him, so he clenched his fists by his sides and hoped his expression conveyed as much as a fist against a jaw. It didn’t. But he hoped it did.

“Don’t act like you’re not relieved,” he said. He didn’t want Lynch to think of Kavinsky in any way except as an enemy, but something twisted inside him made him want Lynch to admit that he was affected by it.

“He kidnapped my brother and almost got him killed. If I see K again, I’ll kill him and he’ll stay dead,” Lynch said. “Tell him that too.”

Prokopenko noticed that his hands were shaking. Lynch seemed to realize what he was looking at and balled them into fists before turning and stalking away. Proko let him go. He got in his car and drove back to Kavinsky’s. He tried to ignore the voice at the back of his mind that was telling him he’d find him dead.

He wasn’t dead though. He found him curled up in a fetal position, his knees tucked up to his chin. He was making a strange, soft noise like a whimper and his body was shuddering.

“K?” Nothing. “Kavinsky? Hey, K.” He stopped beside him, then sat down on the bed. He braced himself for retaliation and put his hand against Kavinsky’s forehead. He was burning up.

“Joey,” he whispered, moving his hand to his shoulder. It had been a long time since Kavinsky had been Joey and it was almost hard to imagine the younger version of him. He’d been the same really, only he was easier to deal with back then. 

Kavinsky groaned and released his knees as he opened his eyes. “Don’t fuckin’ call me that,” he said thickly. “S'not my fuckin’ name.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Prokopenko said and he pushed some of Kavinsky’s sweat-soaked hair back off his forehead. “Hey,” he said as they sat there watching each other. “Remember when we were fourteen and we used to race on our bikes and-”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I don’t want it,” Kavinsky interrupted and he pushed Prokopenko’s hand away.

“Fine,” Proko said. “But remember when you used to hold me round the neck and hit the back of my head against the tree in your backyard until I saw stars and you made me promise that I’d still be your friend tomorrow? You made me promise I wouldn’t leave you?“

Kavinsky glared at him, this wasn’t something they had ever talked about. This was taboo. This was Kavinsky at his weakest. This was unspeakable.

“And I kissed you and made you promise it back?” he continued. “Remember?”

Kavinsky nodded once.

“So don’t you dare try and fucking leave me now,” Prokopenko snapped. He knew he was one of the only people who could get away with talking to him like this.

“Did you see Lynch?” Kavinsky asked and Prokopenko turned away.

“He doesn’t want to see you,” he said. "He hates you.” It was satisfying to say it.

Kavinsky didn’t react and Prokopenko had to look back at him to be sure he hadn’t stopped breathing. But he was just lying there, staring back, expressionless.

“Why do you care so much about him?” Prokopenko demanded. “You were fine before you met him, then it’s like he poisoned your mind. He killed you and you just sat there and let him. I mean- I don’t- _fuck,_ what is he to you? What does he give you that I don’t?”

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on your pretty face,” Kavinsky said flatly and Prokopenko flinched. He knew how much Proko hated being called pretty.

“Why don’t I matter? Why don’t you see me as a person with emotions and feelings and shit?”

“I know you have emotions,” K replied. “I put them there.”

“You don’t control me.” Prokopenko was letting his anger burn him like fire licking up a match.

“Yet here you are, begging me to stay with you. Why is that?” Kavinsky asked and his voice was cruel. “Shall I tell you? It’s because I made you.”

“What?”

“I dreamt you up.”

“Don’t fuck around with me right now. This isn’t a fucking joke.”

“I’m not.” His expression didn’t waver.

Prokopenko’s mouth felt dry. “I remember my life. You can’t just- no, fuck off. You didn’t dream me up. I was born, I had a mother. There’s pictures of me growing up.”

Kavinsky rolled his eyes as though he was trying to explain something simple and Prokopenko was failing to grasp it. “You _were_ real, but you died. Then I dreamt up what you are now. I gave you memories so no one would ever know. Scov knows though, and Swan and Jiang. Lynch does too.”

Prokopenko got to his feet. “I’m not a fucking dream.”

“You are,” Kavinsky said. “Don’t you remember the night you woke up for the first time in my car? And you thought you’d been asleep for days? And I said it was just the pills? That was your fucking birthday, man.”

“How the fuck do you dream up a person?” Prokopenko’s legs were shaking and he sat down on the bed again.

“The same way you dream up a car,” Kavinsky said as though this was a decent explanation.

“How did I die?” Prokopenko asked, feeling crazy.

“Hold on a second. It wasn’t you. You’re the forgery to replace him, but you’re not him.” Kavinsky said.

“Is that why you hate me? Because you didn’t make me perfect?”

“I don’t hate you,” Kavinsky said.

“How can I compete with- with this dead person, this ghost?” Prokopenko demanded and Kavinsky only stared at him. “How did he die?

Kavinsky watched him for a few long moments, then he opened his mouth. “I killed him,” he said bluntly.

“No,” Proko said. “No, you’re a lot of things, K, but you’re not a murderer.”

“Don’t be naive,” Kavinsky said. “I didn’t make you to be naive.”

“But…” He trailed off, not sure what to say. _how, why, when, what for._

“He drove me crazy,” Kavinsky said, “I made you more obedient and now sometimes I wish you were more like him.”

“But that’s not my fault, you can’t blame me for that,” Prokopenko insisted.

“I can blame whoever I want.”

“Yeah, except yourself, right?” Prokopenko snapped. “I don’t know why I fucking bother with you.” He got to his feet and wiped viciously at the tears that were stinging his eyes. “You evil fucking self-centered bastard.”

“Don’t get angry at me ‘cause you can’t take the truth,” Kavinsky said, propping himself up on his elbows. 

“You killed me,” Prokopenko said, turning to stare at him.

“I killed him,” Kavinsky corrected. “I like having you around.”

“Is that it?” Prokopenko demanded. “You like having me around? Is that all I get? After all this?”

Kavinsky shrugged. “It’s better than a kick in the teeth.”

And something in his voice had Prokopenko softening. Something in his voice had Prokopenko walking to the other side of the bed and climbing in beside him. Maybe it was the fact that he was his dream, or maybe it was just the fact that he was his best friend. 

“Please don’t hurt yourself, K,” he said when Kavinsky rolled onto his side to face him. He knew he would, but he said it anyway.


End file.
